Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Nor had the boy’s mother done anything to restrain her son; to the contrary, she had added her own pleas to her son’s: There is nothing for Raju in Calcutta; she had said. He has grown restless and I can no longer manage him. He will go to the bad if he remains here; it is best for him to fufil his heart’s desire and go off to search for his father.

So Baboo Nob Kissin had agreed to foist the boy on Zachary, fully trusting all the while that Neel was still in Macau and would be able to take charge of his son.

And now this …

Look, Raju, said Baboo Nob Kissin. I warned you at the outset that it would be difficult. It was you who were adamant that you wanted to come, no matter what. Now, you must be patient: I will arrange something, I promise, but you must wait.

At this, a look of exactly the kind that Baboo Nob Kissin most dreaded — wide, wounded and filled with disappointment — entered the boy’s eye: Wait? How long?

Flustered, the gomusta rose to his feet: I don’t know — and anyway I have to go now, to see Mr Doughty. In the meantime you should think about what you want to do.

Baboo Nob Kissin disappeared, leaving Raju huddled in a corner.

Through misted eyes the boy saw again the scene of his father’s arrest, at their family home, in Calcutta, two years before. They had been flying kites together, on a terrace, when their steward came up to say that the Chief Constable had arrived, with a squad of armed men. Raju remembered how his father had told him to wait on the terrace; he would be back in ten minutes. So Raju had stayed there, waiting, even after his father was taken away, in a carriage.

He was aware now of a cold, empty sense of abandonment — a feeling very similar to what he had felt then, except that he was two years older now and no longer trusted in promises. He knew that he could not wait for Baboo Nob Kissin or anyone else to decide his fate: until such time as he was reunited with his father he would have to take his destiny into his own hands. But to know this only made things worse — for he had not the faintest inkling of where to go next or what to do.

Then came a familiar knocking, on the planks of wood that separated the cubicle from the camp-followers’ cumra. It was followed by Dicky’s voice: ‘Arré Raju? You still there, men?’

‘Yes.’

‘What-happen? I thought you were leaving for that place — Makoo or something.’

‘No, men, can’t. Uncle has gone off somewhere.’ ‘So what you will do now?’ ‘Don’t know.’

There was a silence and then Dicky said: ‘Arré you know something, men? You can always join our squad, no? We need more fifers; I heard the fife-major talking about it only today.’

*

Daylight was fading when the officers returned from their meeting on the Wellesley . The subalterns came bounding up the Hind ’s side-ladder, talking excitedly, with an exuberant young cornet leading the way.

‘Just our luck to be left out of the action …!’

‘Oh how I should have liked to bag my first slantie …’

Captain Mee came up last, but his voice was the loudest of all: ‘And you can be sure that those bloody bog-trotters of the 49th will never leave off barneying about their little adventures up north …’

Listening to them Kesri understood that the Bengal Volunteers had been spared an immediate deployment. This was welcome news: after everything they had been through lately the unit was in no condition to face another voyage, even less to go into action. He could only hope that they would soon be sent ashore, to a camp on dry land.

Later that evening, when he was summoned to Captain Mee’s cabin for a briefing, Kesri learnt that he had guessed correctly: most of the expedition’s troops would be proceeding northwards the next day, to be deployed at Chusan. But B Company was to remain where it was — on the Hind , in the general proximity of Hong Kong. Along with a detachment of Royal Marines they were to provide protection for the merchant fleet and for all British subjects in the area.

‘It’s a pity we’re going to miss the action,’ said Captain Mee. ‘But the high command has decided that we need time to recover from our voyage.’

‘Some extra time will be good, Kaptán-sah’b,’ said Kesri quietly.

Captain Mee shot him a quizzical glance. ‘Why, havildar? What’s on your mind?’

For Kesri the most worrying thing was the shortfall in camp-followers: without a full contingent of gun-lascars he knew it would be difficult to make good use of their mortars and howitzers.

‘We have lost too many followers, Kaptán-sah’b. Gun-lascars especially — more are needed.’

‘Well I don’t know that there’s anything to be done about that,’ said Captain Mee. ‘We aren’t likely to find any gun-lascars here.’

‘Sir, maybe we can recruit some sailors instead?’

‘At a pinch perhaps,’ said the captain. ‘If you see any likely fellows let me know.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kesri. ‘And when will we move ashore, sir? Do you know?’

Captain Mee’s answer came as a disappointment.

‘We’re to remain on the Hind for the time being, havildar. It’s up to Captain Smith of the Volage to decide — he’s been placed in overall charge of the southern sector.’

Unrolling a chart, Captain Mee pointed to their location. Kesri saw that the Pearl River estuary was shaped like an inverted funnel, with the stem pointing north. The island of Hong Kong and the promontory of Macau were at opposite ends of the funnel’s rim, forty miles apart. The Hind was currently positioned closer to Macau, but Captain Mee told him that they would soon be moving to Hong Kong Bay, where most of the British merchant fleet was at anchor.

Slowly the captain’s fingertip moved up the chart, through clusters of islands to the point where the bowl of the funnel met the stem.

‘This here is the Bocca Tigris, havildar,’ said the captain. ‘Some call it the Bogue.’

Kesri had heard of this place from lascars: they spoke of it as Sher-ki-mooh — ‘the Tiger’s Mouth’.

‘It’s a heavily fortified position,’ said Captain Mee. ‘If there’s any fighting in this sector, that’s where it’ll be.’

*

Bahram’s grave was at the far edge of a bowl-like valley, encircled by steep ridges. They rented horses and a guide at a village called Sheng Wan, where they’d got off the boat that had brought them over to Hong Kong. The guide explained to Freddie that the grave was in an area known as Wang nai Cheong or ‘Happy Valley’. They made their way there by following a coastal pathway to the eastern side of the bay. Then they turned left to climb over a ridge before descending into the valley.

The valley floor was carpeted with rice paddies, some of which were fed by a bamboo aqueduct. On one side of the valley was a nearly vertical rock-face, of weathered granite. Perched on top of this was a gigantic boulder, elliptical in shape. At the foot of the boulder lay a great heap of red paper flags and joss sticks. The guide told Freddie that the rock was known as ‘the Harlot’s Stone’, and was visited by women who wanted to bear children.

Bahram’s grave was at the other end of the valley: it was a modest stone structure, without any embellishments. The inscription on the gravestone had only the words: Bahramjee Nusserwanjee Moddie.

‘We decided not to add anything else,’ said Zadig apologetically. ‘We were not sure what the family would want.’

Shireen nodded. ‘Yes, it was for the best. We will add some verses from the Avesta when it’s possible.’

Shireen began to murmur the Srosh-Baj prayer while Freddie laid out some offerings that he had brought with him, of fruit and flowers. He had said hardly a word all day and it was not until they were on their way back to Sheng Wan that he spoke.